start here. Wander around.

It's way (WAY) healthier than the books I read in my teens about sex.

I've found myself to be more sensitive to the appearance of objectification lately, and especially so today.  I'm not at all sure why, since it wasn't a conscious decision like "Hey!  Let's be on the look-out for random treatment of people like objects with no further value than their rating as eye-candy!"

Apparently, it's on Hugo's mind as well.
snippets:
Far too many folks assume that the solution to a culture that primarily objectifies women is to create a culture in which men are also objectified. If there's equal opportunity ogling, then there's no problem.
and
In the minds of some, perhaps, being an "equal opportunity offender" is better than singling out one sex. But committing a second murder doesn't lessen the pain inflicted by the first; insulting first blacks and then Jews doesn't mean that the former should be any less enraged because they've been attacked by someone whose bigotry applies to all, not merely to some. And similarly, objectifying men doesn't lessen the offense of objectifying women.

Quite likely the awesomest thing that ever awesomed.

Joss Whedon about Equality Now

Didja know he's directing the next Wonder Woman thingie?  I hear it's a movie.

The whopping 147 words I've managed to write today do not comprise enough of a scene to post. It's flipping hot outside, and I have a head cold, and I don't have air conditioning.

Meh.

OTOH, at Tracy's office, I wrote a little bit of McKay/Sheppard!

Do I think less of men who are attracted to women?

So I woke up from a very strange dream this morning.  I'd gone and fallen in love with Methos (the ROG, not my cat), and he with me.  And we'd had some cuddling and pillow-talk about stuff and that I liked cuddling and kissing but I wasn't so keen on the actual sex act, and he was groovy with that.  The relationship grew and there may have been a commitment, and I thought maybe sex with Methos might be worth a try, with the whole really loving and trusting thing.  I was all set to tell him

... and I died in a car wreck before we could consummate.

But, wait!  There's more!  He comes home to my parents' house all mournful and stuff, and I'm there as a ghost, but he doesn't see me.  Duncan MacLeod, on the other hand, does.  As does Joe Dawson.  Well, that made sense, since Joe was also dead and coaching me on the stuff I could and couldn't do as a ghost.  Duncan refused to pass on my messages to Methos (I'm just now realizing a similarity to the movie Ghost, only it's wasn't, because everything was different but the basic scenario, and Duncan wasn't a medium, nor as funny as Whoopi) so I gave up on him and tried writing Methos a letter, but I could only get the first word out -- but the stationery was pretty, and the pen had red ink.  I really, really wanted to tell him how much he meant to me, and something about "Fifteen years," which, in the dream, my shade fell asleep muttering (because I hadn't gone into detail about something that I wanted him to know).

And then, still a ghost, I was eating rice at the breakfast bar at my parents' house, only there was too much soy sauce, and some people could see me and some could not, and I was still mooning over Methos and making a mess with the rice so the person at the sink could tell I existed.  I wanted something else in my bowl, but, again, the people who could see me wouldn't pass my messages.

Is that a word? Hmm. Not according to MS Word spell check nor Miriam Webster. Whatever. For the purposes of this post, I hereby invent the word "Oblivity" and define it as follows: The state of being oblivious.

( Denial is not my happy place after all )

..

..

( Oblivity, on the other hand, IS. )